


Slow Hands: Ivar Edition

by pokeasleepingsmaug



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, F/M, Knifeplay, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 22:41:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11587656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokeasleepingsmaug/pseuds/pokeasleepingsmaug
Summary: Ivar got jealous I wrote so much of his brothers, and so this happened. Trigger warnings: knife play, blood play. Appears to be dubcon but isn't.





	Slow Hands: Ivar Edition

“Y/n,” Ivar's voice was dangerous and smooth, honey laced with arsenic, but you wanted to eat every last drop of it anyway. “Where do you think you're going?” You turned to face him, fisting your hands into your skirts to hide their shaking. 

“N-nowhere, master,” you replied, meek as a kitten. 

He nodded. “Good. I already told you, thrall, to meet me in my chambers. Go there now and wait for me.” You were quick to obey, anticipation blooming in your chest as you wondered what Ivar had planned for you tonight. You hadn't meant to disobey, it was only that cleaning up after dinner had taken longer than usual. Some of the men had been rowdy and made a mess of things. Still, you knew Ivar wouldn't accept your excuses.

You pushed open the door to his chamber and started a small fire in the hearth, knowing that would please him. He liked watching the way the flames danced over your skin as he claimed you. A sudden impulse seized you, and you brought the special knife from its hiding place. Sometimes he liked to use it on your skin, leaving marks on you that only he would ever see. Since marrying Ivar, you had never even allowed one of the servants to help you with bathing. Your skin told a love story too private to share with the eyes of others.

You'd been a thrall yourself once, ordered by the surly prince to warm his bed. He'd freed you to marry you, but some nights he still treated you like the slave you had been. Used to being ordered around your whole life, you never minded the return to servitude; not when it came to pleasing your storming husband. The door opened slowly, revealing Ivar inch by inch, flawless in the firelight. Even crawling toward you, lazy and yet still lethal, he looked like a god come to earth seeking vengeance for some imagined wrong.

It was the way his blue eyes blazed, the way the flickering fire turned his skin to pale bronze. His full lips were parted and pouting, still annoyed from your earlier disobedience. “I am shocked I needed to tell you to come here twice, thrall.” His voice was low, dangerous, and you shivered in delight at the danger it promised.

“I am sorry, master.” 

“Undress.” The command was simple and inexorable; your hands rushed to obey, so eager your fingers were clumsy on the ties that held your dress together. The simple red gown fell to the floor in a puddle of fabric and you shivered a little at the chill in the air. It was deep winter, and while the hall was warm and the fire crackling, it was impossible to completely dispell the frigidity of a northern winter. Ivar hummed in approval, rolling his jaw as his stormy blue eyes slowly worked over every inch of your body. “Lay down.” Another command you couldn't disobey even if you'd wanted to, even if it hadn't sent slickness rushing into your core.

Ivar pulled himself up on the bed, his hand immediately finding the knife you had left out for him. He smiled, slow and suddenly tender. “How did you know, love?” He twirled the knife reverently in his agile fingers. “You always know.” He slid the knife from its sheath, watching the way it gleamed in the firelight. “Not yet, though.”

Ivar liked to make sure you were ready for his knife, that you wanted to feel the sting as much as he wanted to give it to you. He began by tracing your cheekbone with one slow finger, then the outline of your mouth. He held his bottom lip between his teeth, utterly focused on the way his hands could unmake you. He drew his fingertips lightly down your neck, delighting in the involuntary shuddering beneath him. He repeated it, nodding in approval. Those teasing fingers wandered down your chest, along the delicate ridge of your collarbone. He was in no rush as he meandered down to your breasts. He only flicked the nipple of the left one with his thumb, drawing a whine from you. He shook his head at the pleading noise. No. He was only stoking the fire now. 

The curve of your hips felt his touch next. He was like a man returning to a place he had left long ago, slowly reacquainting himself with the landscape of your body. One hand slid beneath you, squeezing your ass gently. You moaned, and he obliged you by suddenly squeezing again, rougher, biting the inside of his cheek. He shifted and you felt his hardness against your thigh. You moaned again, knowing how hard he was working to control himself. You wanted him to lose control. Every inch of your skin sang for the sweet sting of the knife.

When he laid the cool flat of the blade against your heated skin, the sudden chill had you shivering, raising goosebumps on your arms, and Ivar gave you a small, tight smile. He slowly drew the point of the knife from the center of your chest down to your navel, but was careful not to pierce the skin. “Ivar,” you panted. He immediately withdrew the blade, eyebrows raised in displeasure. 

“Hush, or I will punish you with my prick,” he threatened. You bit back the moan and forced yourself to still. Ivar waited a few moments—or was it an eternity?--before returning the knife to your skin. Finally, finally, he let the point sink into your skin. He drew a long line underneath your collarbone, watching as the blood welled slowly from the shallow cut. His breathing hitched, growing unsteady. “The color of blood on you is my favorite,” he breathed, but you knew that already. It was the reason you only ever wore red. 

He bent his head slowly to you, and you longed to run your fingers through the black satin of his hair as the firelight shone off it. You closed your eyes in ecstasy at the feel of his tongue tracing along the line he had just drawn, the claim he had just staked on the canvas of your flesh yet again. “You are a work of art. A piece of driftwood that I carve to my own whims. Every line brings you closer to the masterpiece you were born to be.” He molded his soft, full lips to yours, the tang of your blood exciting you. “The gods have blessed me, to grant me such a willing woman to carve my visions into.”

He set the knife down, guiding himself into you with a sigh. He pressed himself to you so that your blood stained his chest, too, and that was how he took you.


End file.
